


A Pin For You, My Dear

by effulgentkaspbrak



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Angst, Blood and Violence, Character Death, F/M, Graphic Description, Horror, M/M, Pining, Swearing, Tragedy, Underage Drug Use, Underage Smoking, Weapons, Zombie Apocalypse, do not worry about that warning :)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:27:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23339902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/effulgentkaspbrak/pseuds/effulgentkaspbrak
Summary: An infection was spreading rapidly across the world. With his home now destroyed and his family gone forever, life was never going to be the same for Richie.He had the Losers though, and maybe life can still be good with them by his side.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	A Pin For You, My Dear

It wasn’t surprising for Richie to be startled awake by knocking on his window in the middle of the night. At the sound, he scrambled for his glasses, shoving them onto his face once they were in his grasp. He glanced at his alarm clock. The deep red numbers dimly glowed through the darkness and read 3:00. There was another impatient knock on the glass, followed by an angry “open the fucking window, Rich, its cold,” from Eddie.

The Losers had been regularly sneaking out since they transitioned to high school. An occasional escape from home was necessary considering how all the parents of Derry had collectively decided to be the shittiest people in the world. Most of the time they would run off to Richie’s house because he got away with everything.

Ever since his parents started fighting, it became difficult to be noticed, even while under the same roof. They were planning on divorcing, and Richie thought it was best for them, but it meant being invisible until it was finalized. His friends loved it though, and he loved his friends.

Eddie slammed his fist against the window, ratting the glass in its frame. Richie pulled himself out of his bed and dug his palms underneath the lip above the frame, forcing it up above his head. The wind whirled inside, his clothes absorbing the cold and chilling him from the inside out in seconds. He wrapped his arms around his body, stepping back for Eddie to come in.

“What are you doing here so late?” Richie whispered.

Eddie gave him a confused look as he perched on the windowsill and eased himself onto the floor. Right behind him, two more of their friends — Bev and Bill — followed into the room. Bev pulled the window closed behind her. 

“One second,” she said, reaching into Bill’s bag. Richie observed as Eddie fumbled with his fanny pack, shoving around pills and his inhaler before removing a cardboard box. With a sudden fwip of Bev’s lighter, the three turn to Richie, presenting a misshapen cupcake with two small candles burning on top.

“It’s your b-bu-birthday, Rich,” Bill whispered, nudging it towards Richie. The birthday boy stared back with wide eyes behind his thick lenses. He must've been silent for too long once Eddie had started to complain about the wax dripping onto the carpet.

Beverly jumps in with the Birthday song, easing out the awkwardness. The other two join in, singing barely over a whisper, and Richie just stared back with a grin spread across his face. Once the song ended, Richie leaned over and blew out the candle.

“Made your wish, Mr. Seventeen-Year-Old?” Bev asked.

“Of course, I did!” Richie hugged Bev then twirled himself toward Eddie, slinging an arm around his shoulder. Despite the day prior latching onto Eddie, he still smelled like his mother’s lavender shampoo—she claims the men’s scents had chemicals too harsh for Eddie’s “fragile” skin. The birthday boy swiped his finger across the cupcake Bill was still cradling in his palms and smeared the frosting against Eddie’s right cheek. “I wished for Eddie to stay forever sweet,” he said.

Eddie shrugged off Richie’s arm as his face burned red, so bright it was apparent even in the dark bedroom. He stomped carelessly to Richie’s lamp, yanking on its cord until the room filled with its yellowish hue. “You do that every single birthday! You know I hate it; it's sticky and gross and disgusting.” 

“Oh, you love it.”

“I do _not_!”

Bill interrupted, “I, uh, have to g-go to ch-church in five hours, so I ga-gotta go now.” Bill exited from the window to escape the potential fight. “Happy birthday, Rich.” He left unnoticed by everyone but Beverly, who he had handed the birthday cupcake to.

“If you hate it so much,” Richie continued, “Then I’ll just lick it off for you.”

“No, don’t you dare,” Eddie backed away from his friend. “Stop it, Richie, I’m warning you.”

Richie took two large steps forward, reducing the distance between them and shoving Eddie, watching as he fell into the mattress. Eddie struggled, grunting softly in an attempt to keep quiet while pushing Richie away. 

Sometimes, Richie forgot he was no longer thirteen, and that he had a lot more strength and height compared to Eddie now. He also forgot that being this close to Eddie made him feel embarrassed and weird. He disregarded the feelings and leaned forward with his tongue out.

Bev was laughing, watching Eddie’s horrified expression as he pushed Richie’s shoulders away from him. Richie continued to get closer and closer, spit gathering at the tip of his tongue. Before he could even think about slurping it back in, his saliva stretched down like a spider spinning web directly onto Eddie’s cheek.

The two seconds of shocked silence felt like a lifetime before Eddie suddenly filled the room with a scream. As smooth as a professional fighter, he brought up his legs into Richie’s chest and pushed him away first with his knee, then with his foot.

“You’re so fucking disgusting!" Eddie shrieked. "Don’t you know your mouth has bacteria that multiply while you sleep? You know that frothy feeling in your mouth when you wake up? Yeah, that’s a whole fucking colony, and you just dripped it on my fa-” 

Bev covered his mouth, shushing him. “You’re going to wake up his parents. Do you want Maggie to tell your mom that you snuck out again?” Eddie shook his head. “Then shut up.”

They spoke in softer tones afterward, only conversing for an hour more before Beverly had to return home. Then, as the night got later, Eddie and Richie migrated to a small section of the rooftop right outside his window and rested with their backs against the boards. 

“Surprised you came tonight,” Richie confessed. He tossed a stray acorn across the lawn, whistling when he heard it ding against the neighbors metal fence. 

Eddie snatched a rounded pebble from near the gutter and hurled it with a grunt. No sound returned. “Of course I did, Richie. What friend would I be if I didn’t come here for your seventeenth birthday?”

“You and Stan never sneak out for birthdays, usually just Bev, Bill, and sometimes Mike.”

“I snuck out because, Rich, it’s your seventeenth birthday,” Eddie explained, flinging another rock towards Richie's neighbors. “This is the last time we ever get to be kids. Next year we graduate, then what? Moving out, college, marriage, kids. It happens fast. Our life as kids is reaching its end.”

Richie stared at him blankly, his eyes tracing Eddie's features as he gazed out into the distance. From where they sat, the tiniest sliver of their town was visible. A police car and an ambulance rushed down Main Street before disappearing from their sight. Their sirens were a haunted cry in an otherwise lifeless night. 

Richie huffed out a laugh, looking forward to the dimly lit streets. “Oh, my dear Edward, you amaze me.” 

“How so?”

“You just do, Eds.”

Eddie groaned about his name before standing up from the roof and dusting off his pants. “Happy birthday, Richie, I will probably see you later today.”

“Bye Eds,” Richie stood with him, hugging him farewell for the night. Eddie latched his arms around Richie’s torso tightly, but gently. Only when their hug lingered a few seconds too late to be normal did they pulled away. 

“I almost forgot. Here,” Eddie handed him a plastic bag from his back pocket, containing three pins: a circular one with a Depeche Mode album cover, one with Road House on it, which is his favorite movie, and one with a typo that says “Say Mo To Drugs”.

“Thank you, Eddie.” He hugged him one more time. “These are great!”

Eddie smiled, pulling away. “Anything for you, Rich. Have a great birthday.”

“Will do, Eddie Spaghetti!” Richie beamed and waved to Eddie as he stepped onto the trellis, slowly climbing down.

“That’s not my name,” Eddie called up.

“Eds Spagheds!”

“Not my name!”

“Edward Spaghedward!”

Eddie mumbled incoherently, letting his feet hit the ground before throwing a middle finger into the air. “Fuck you, Tozier!”

“You can’t say that to me, it’s my birthday!” Richie feigned being offended, but he was smiling wide. 

“Just did!” Eddie countered, picking up his bike and riding off down the lonesome streets. 

...

“Where’s dad?” Richie breaks the early afternoon silence for the first time that day. His mother was leaning over the kitchen island across from him, her face void of emotion as usual as she sipped on a cup of black coffee.

Maggie Tozier wasn’t all too expressive, neither physically nor verbally. Emotions were rare from her, but she shows it with her actions. That day she had told him happy birthday in the form of Breakfast DeathCakes, as Richie called it. They were three ungodly pancake tiers with honey and peanut butter, mixed berry jam, and vanilla frosting, all topped with sprinkles and maraschino cherries. Delicious.

She set down her cup of coffee and let out a deep sigh. “He has to work today,” she said.

“He’d have a heart attack and die if he saw me eating this, don’t you think?” Richie said. 

She stared blankly at him. “That would be interesting.”

“Interesting in- _dead_.” Richie followed his pun with maniacal laughter and threw his head back. “Get it? In Dead?” He imitated Dracula. “Cause he _vould_ have died?”

“I get it,” she said. His mom doesn’t get his humor, but she smiles and pats his hand anyways. “I’ll be at the store picking up things for your birthday. Anything special that you’d like?”

Richie thought as he shoved more DeathCake into his mouth. “Fruit roll-ups?” 

She pulled her lips into a tight line, debating if Richie even needed more sugar. She gave in. “Fine, but only because it’s your birthday.” His mother stood, grabbing her keys from the wooden hooks on the kitchen wall. “I’ll be back soon. Please, can you clean up when you’re done?”

“But,” he pouted, “it’s my birthday.”

“Just clean up, love. Your one chore for the day, that will be it,” she said, then shut the door before he could answer.

To fill the silence, Richie turned on the radio his dad kept in the middle of the kitchen island and spun the dial to his favorite station. The room filled up with a muffled song, some old rock hit that his mother hated. She hated all rock. A few hits to the box transforming static into crisp notes. Richie finished his DeathCakes, dancing along to soft rock music as he cleaned the plates in the sink. 

Stanley showed up around the time Richie had finished with the dishes. 

Stan, when he was alone, was just as different as Richie when he's alone. They enjoyed being around each other while they were away from their friends, but Stan would never admit to that. 

“Have you opened gifts yet?” Stan had asked.

They took over the couch, Richie sitting with his calves across Stan's thighs as he looked at a comic book. While they talked, Stan mindlessly twisted the black hairs along Richie's shins. They never turned off the radio, but it was nothing but background noise to their conversation.

_Hello, this is Todd and Shane bringing you today's news! How are you doing, Maine? Today is gonna be a cold one at 45°…_

“No," Richie answered, "Mom says we are going to wait until dad comes home, but he closes the office today. He probably won’t get home until like eight or nine.” Richie flipped a page in his comic but he wasn’t reading, just observing the pictures he had seen a million times before.

_...in Portland, people have been talking about a few rabies cases, you hear of that, Todd?_

“She will give in,” Stan said. “She’s a mom. She will always give in.”

_...they say it had originated from a Boston couple who owned a dog that got involved with the wrong type of animals and traveled upwards…_

“That’s true. Dad’s been hinting at something huge, so like I know mom is probably just exploding trying to tell me.”  
  
_...but this probably isn’t too serious, I mean CDC isn’t even involved…_

“You just got your license. It’s probably a car.”

_There hasn’t been a single report on this, huh? At this point, it has probably been contained._

“Nah, we don’t have the money for that,” Richie laughed, tossing his comic book onto the table. “It’s probably like, I don’t know, a new cassette.”

_...what if, and this is just a conspiracy, it hasn’t been contained?_

“You still use your walkman? Surprised that thing still works.”

_...you tryna say that the CDC is purposely letting rabies spread?_

“Came straight out of the seventies, baby!” Richie pumped his fists into the air. “The best year to be alive! Greatest things came out of the seventies. Like me.”

_...I’m not saying anything… Just… what if?_

“You were alive for only four years of the seventies.”

_...that’s funny. The next thing you’ll be saying is the government released a rabid dog on purpose..._

“Four glorious years." Richie hummed peacefully as if reminiscing his life as a toddler.

_...well… I wouldn’t be too surprised..._

“You’re stupid.” Stanley rolled his eyes. He had gotten up and turned off the radio. “Sorry I couldn’t think with those two blabbering about some stupid rabid dog.”

“Yuh-huh, sure. I think you’re just jealous you were born late and didn’t get to experience as much of the seventies as I did.”

“I am more than fine being born when I was,” Stan said, suddenly looking smug. “They say Cancers are extremely intelligent and humble.”

Richie groaned, throwing his arms to the side dramatically. “Bev got into your head with that stupid horoscope shit, too? Ben has been talking about it non-stop.”

“It is not stupid!” Stanley glared, tightening up his posture in defense. “It makes a lot of sense. Bev teaches me something new every time we talk about horoscopes and it always makes sense. Like Cancers are sensitive and caring, but also very intelligent and observant, whereas Pisces, that’s you Rich, are compassionate and emotional and artistic. That fits us perfectly, doesn’t it?”

“Those are basic human traits, Stan, they can apply to anyone.”

“You suck, Richie!”

“You can’t say that to me! I’m the birthday boy!”

“Birthday boys can suck, too.” Stanley lifted his middle finger, grabbing his coat from the arm of the couch. Richie stuck his tongue out in return. 

“You leaving?” Richie asked.

“I have to. My parents are supposed to return from some potluck thing at three, and its already,” Stan checks his watch, “two-thirty.”

“Boo! Boring!” Richie stood. “Do you know if Mike or Ben ever planned on visiting?”

“I don’t know about Ben, but Mike said he couldn’t come because his grandpa is going on a frenzy again—You know how he is. But that reminds me, Mike wanted me to give you this.” Stanley dug into the inside pocket of his jacket, pulling out a twenty-dollar bill and an Airhead taffy. 

“Sweet! Thank you, Mikey!”

“The candy is from me. Sorry, it’s not anything special.”

“It is special. Thank you, Stan.”

...

A while after dinner, his mother had allowed him to open his present. His big surprise wasn’t a car, nor was it a cassette, but rather a hunting rifle.

Hunting was something everyone did in Derry, even his dad. Richie wasn’t overly fond of hunting. He was more of a “poke things with a stick” kind of guy, but he appreciated the gift anyways. Even if he had hoped it was a deformed guitar in wrapping paper. 

Richie sat on the floor with the rifle in his lap and an open fruit roll-up box right beside him, studying the frame of the gun. The body was made out of dark brown wood and had a black scope sitting on top of it. On the gunstock were carvings of trees and a bear in a stream.

Richie was so captivated by the carving that he almost didn’t hear his front door slam open and his parents begin another loud conversation. He reached for his walkman to begin his routine for blocking out their screaming matches.

He stopped when his mother let out a blood-curdling scream. Richie stood up and raced out of his room faster than the speed of light.

“Mom?” Richie asked as he peered over the balcony to the first floor. He saw shadows from the living room.

“Richie, baby, go get the keys.” Her voice wavered from crying. “Your father, I-I think he is hurt.”

He was down the staircase and in the kitchen in a second, grabbing the keys of the wall. The wooden hooks fought back, ripping the metal away and dropping to the floor. With trembling hands, Richie kneeled down and grabbed the car keys. As his hand lifted the keychain, his mother released another shrill scream, but in pain rather than worry.

His fingers shook uncontrollably, the keys were windchimes below his knuckles. He took hesitant steps, his feet feeling weighed down by cement, and turned the corner to peek into the living room.

Richie's mother was lying lifelessly on the carpet. His father was facing away from him, hunched over his mother with his face buried in her skin right above her stomach. His head was jerking, moving in a way that made him look like a wolf ripping apart a deer’s carcass.

“Dad?” 

His father jerked his head towards Richie. But it wasn’t his father. His skin was too pallid and sickly, pulled tight against his skull as he bared his bloodied teeth as if they were weapons. Across Went’s face, dripping down onto his scrubs, was blood — _his mom’s blood_ — fresh and warm from her body. His eyes were crazed, so bloodshot it was like he had no whites in the first place. On the bottom of his neck was shredded skin, exposing a bone and coagulated blood. 

“Dad?” Richie’s voice faltered. He backed up slowly, watching as his dad rose from the ground until he was on his feet, wavering above his mother’s corpse. A ravenous snarl erupted from his throat.

Richie turned and bolted towards the stairs. Wentworth lunged at him like a predator capturing its prey, slamming into Richie’s torso and launching him onto the stairs. The keys fell from the steps as he scrambled onto his back. He pushed his hands against his father’s shoulders, desperately kicking away, but with no success. 

Went stared down at him with ravenous eyes, teeth relentlessly snapping mere inches from his son’s face. Richie cried out, his strength gradually leaving his arms and diminishing the distance between his and his dad’s face. Bloody saliva pooled along his father’s bottom lip and stretched down like a spider spinning web across Richie’s cheeks, his hot breath steaming up his son's lenses. He turned his face away, looking over to where his mother’s body lay.

Maggie was no longer lifeless, but rather twitching. She clenched her fingers then extended them out repeatedly while her torso lifted and dropped on the ground. Her jaw stretched open and snapped closed mindlessly, letting out desperate cries. Something was terribly wrong with her. Whatever it was, it was changing her just like it changed his dad. Richie didn’t understand what he was seeing, but it felt like a horrible nightmare he couldn’t wake up from.

The image of Eddie flashed into his mind. He remembered how peaceful he looked that morning while they were talking on the rooftop. And how nice he smelled when they sat thigh to thigh, sharing his birthday cupcake. Or how warm and soft he felt when they wrestled over stupid icing. Richie thought about how close they were, and how he would never get that close again. If Richie wasn’t the only one experiencing this, then Eddie must be so scared. And Richie wouldn't be able to protect him because he was losing strength. He was going to die. 

Suddenly, it hit him. Richie squirmed, struggling to pull his legs up in between him and his father. He pushed his knees against his dad just like Eddie did to him that morning. Once he got the bottom of his foot up to Went’s stomach, he kicked to push him away. With as much strength he could muster, Richie struck a final blow to Went’s chin. His father grunted and fell onto his back but almost instantly began to rise back up as if completely unaffected.

Richie hadn't waited a second before he clambered his way up the stairs and aimed for the safety of his bedroom. He felt the rumble of his father’s steps not too far behind him just as he reached his room. He slammed and locked the door behind him, staring in horror as his dad pounded harshly on the other side.

He had to leave. He needed to grab what he could and save himself or he would die. Richie was terrified. There were going to be more people like that, insane and desperate for flesh like his father was. He was scared shitless, but he had to go.

_Eddie must be scared._

Richie grabbed his backpack out of his closet and emptied out the school folders. He shoved in clothes, a spare pair of shoes, fruit rollups, and everything else he believed was important in his room. 

The pounding never stopped. Richie kept an eye on the door the entire time he prepared to leave, nervous that it would suddenly bust open. He hastily changed into different clothes, tied his boots, and fumbled to load the rifle. The wood of his door began to split as he threw on his green utility jacket. He snatched the buttons Eddie gave him off his nightstand and randomly pinned them onto one of the jacket's pockets.

Richie took one final look behind him before he put on his backpack, secured his rifle, and crawled out through the window. He scurried off the roof and onto the trellis, climbing down to the ground. Finally, he hopped on his bike and began riding down the street.

Once Richie pedaled into town, he realized he wasn’t the only person who was experiencing this. Main Street, which sat in unbothered peace for most of its lifetime, now was a war zone. Cars were abandoned in the middle of the street, blood was splattered everywhere, and lunatics fed upon twitching corpses. In the distance, screams and cries of helpless victims echoed in the night, but he ignored it. As did everyone else.

He pedaled as fast as he could. A piece of himself chipped away with every push of his legs. With every breath he sucked in, realization dawned on him that life was never going to be normal again. His home was destroyed, and his parents were dead—or as close as they could be to it. 

As he pedaled for his friends, and for Eddie, he left behind more and more of himself.

March 7th, 1993, was no longer the day Richie Tozier turned seventeen years older.

It was the day the world ended.

**Author's Note:**

> so i'm not a writer, i haven't written shit in over four years, but with this pandemic going on, i think i am going to lose my mind if i didn't write anything lol. also i love zombie stories.
> 
> tell me what you think!


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